


discomfited

by thegreatpumpkin



Series: these many years [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4096903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every time he wants to go drinking and can’t find you, the whole house knows about it. Every time you leave directly after a council session instead of hanging around to talk with him. Honestly, I thought you knew." Glorfindel is busy, and Ecthelion is less than pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	discomfited

**Author's Note:**

> [ouroboros](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ouroboros/pseuds/ouroboros) continues to be the best beta. Even when I start something and then leave it untouched for three solid months.

**Gondolin  
FA 235 **

It had been a beautiful spring and a particularly pleasant summer for Glorfindel. The reason for this was currently straddling his hips and tracing idle patterns across his bare chest with callused fingertips. Glorfindel drowsed contentedly in the late-August heat as Elemmakil stroked along the contours of his ribs; they might have stayed like that all afternoon if a knock hadn’t come at the door.

Elemmakil stretched gracefully and rose to answer it, snagging a sheet as he passed the bed and wrapping it around his hips, more or less at home now in the Goldenflower house. “Cousin,” he said after a pause, and though there were any number of his cousins running about the city, his posture and the deference in his tone made it clear which one was in the corridor. It was no surprise someone had let Ecthelion in to find his own way—in fact, the bigger surprise was that he had bothered to knock. Elemmakil stood back to let him speak to Glorfindel, who was dressed enough for company if perhaps not enough for propriety.

They hadn’t been secretive, but it was clear from Ecthelion’s face that he hadn’t known about this little affair. He cocked his head, and his expression was as clear as if he had spoken aloud. _Really, Glorfindel? Boring little Elemmakil?_

Elemmakil was still looking at his cousin, so he didn’t catch the obscene gesture Glorfindel made in response. Not that it was any of his damn business, but Glorfindel could have told Ecthelion that neither _boring_ nor _little_ still applied. Out loud, he said, “Did you need something?”

“I didn’t realize I’d be _interrupting_ anything.” Ecthelion sounded as if he were the one owed an apology.

Elemmakil, unwilling to get involved in whatever argument might or might not be brewing, was already pulling on his trousers. He eased his way past his cousin and into the corridor. “I’ll get us all some tea. Take your time.”

“So that’s where you’ve been lately,” said Ecthelion, once he had gone.

“I beg your pardon?”

Ecthelion eyed him, coolly. “Well, you certainly haven’t been in the practice yards, or in Turgon’s council.”

Glorfindel sat up on the chaise, bristling at the judgment in his tone. “To what purpose? You won’t find me out of practice, but after centuries of sparring with the same few people I think I might be due for a break. And stop acting as if I’ve neglected my duties. I am always there when Turgon summons me.”

“I should hope so. Is that the kind of person you’ve become, then? Only doing the bare minimum required of you?”

So it was _that_ kind of conversation, then. He didn’t like to acknowledge that Ecthelion might have had a point; he went for rudeness instead. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said archly.

It was true that he had been, in the past, a great deal more invested in his work. It was hard to say why this year was different—Elemmakil had been a very pleasant diversion, but he couldn’t pretend that was an excuse. He had plenty of _time_ , it was just the motivation that had been lacking. But that was a consideration for later. He didn’t exactly want to examine why taking up with Elemmakil had made him less eager to see to his duties, not with Ecthelion glaring at him.

“Anyway,” he said instead, “I assume you came with some other purpose than to scold me about my personal life.”

“None in particular, except that I haven’t seen you in weeks. It’s unlike you—an entire month without following me about like my own shadow. I thought you might be dead.” The corner of Ecthelion’s mouth quirked, but it was more sneer than smile, and there was no warmth in his tone. “Having successfully determined that is not the case, I’ll see myself out.”

Glorfindel wanted to be angry, or defensive at least. Instead he only felt guilty; and for the first time in a very long time, like Ecthelion’s student receiving a scolding, rather than his friend. He’d never been able to take a reprimand with good grace, though, at any age. “Well, I’m not dead. Next time, just send a messenger.”

Ecthelion stiffened a little, then nodded tightly and turned to go. Before he crossed the threshold, he paused with a hand on the doorframe. “Oh, and Glorfindel? Try not to set an example for my cousin. I expect _my_ house to go above and beyond.” Then he was gone, striding down the corridor.

Glorfindel kicked the door shut behind him, though the action was more vehement than he really felt. He turned around to stalk back to the chaise, but then his eyes landed on the pile of parchment on his writing table and the remaining wind went out of his sails. An entire fortnight’s worth of reports waited there—ones he’d been _meaning_ to get around to, but hadn’t quite managed—looking like a concrete manifestation of Ecthelion’s condemnation.

Guilt was, at least, an effective motivator. He’d charged through almost half of the stack before Elemmakil deemed it safe to reappear, not to mention that he had come to a decision of sorts.

“Sorry,” Elemmakil told him, setting down the tea tray and perching on the corner of the writing table, his long legs crossed at the ankles. “I thought that would take longer. I would have come back a long time ago if I realized he’d already stormed out.”

“Elemmakil,” Glorfindel said, and sighed.

Elemmakil glanced at him sidelong, and gave a faint smile he didn’t know how to interpret. “Go on, then.”

That wasn’t encouraging. He wasn’t sure what Elemmakil expected him to say. He’d been planning something about what a fine person Elemmakil was, and how he’d enjoyed their time together, and that it was entirely his own fault that he couldn’t seem to balance business and pleasure (platitudes, of course, but still true). But this sudden air of friendly expectancy left him uncertainly grasping for words.

“It’s all right, Glorfindel.” There was kindness in Elemmakil’s expression. “It was only a matter of time until he found out. I hoped it would last a _bit_ longer, but it’s not as if I didn’t see it coming.”

“Wait,” said Glorfindel, then—after a moment of trying, and failing, to parse that statement— “Sorry. What?”

“Ecthelion,” he clarified, or rather did not clarify at all. When Glorfindel continued to flounder, he went on, “I wouldn’t have taken up with you if I wanted forever. You needn’t feel bad, I knew what I was getting into.”

“I appreciate that, but...this has nothing to do with your cousin.” Glorfindel still wasn’t sure he knew what Elemmakil was getting at, but it was almost certainly incorrect. “I’ve hardly lived up to my position as the Lord of the Golden Flower, these past few months, and it shames me to realize it. All Ecthelion did was bring it to my attention.”

Elemmakil gave him a brief, hard look, but then his face softened again into something like sympathy. “Oh. _You_ didn’t know.” He reached across and took Glorfindel’s hand, clasping it between both of his own, like a friend delivering bad news. “This was never going to last, Glorfindel, not with the way things are between you and my cousin. I got into it knowing that, and I thought you did too. I’m sorry.”

“The way things are between—” Glorfindel knew he was being unfair, but everything about the situation seemed calculated to increase his dismay. “Things aren’t any way between us!”

“I don’t mean that you’re involved,” Elemmakil said hastily. “It’s just…”

Glorfindel made a concerted effort to rein himself in, reminding himself that none of this was Elemmakil’s doing. “I’m sorry, _melindil_. Please, tell me. It’s just…?”

“You almost always follow his lead,” Elemmakil went on, carefully.

“You mean I do what he tells me to,” Glorfindel countered, though it was not an accusation. If he asked for the truth, he ought to be prepared to receive it.

Elemmakil continued, diplomatically, as if he had not heard. “You almost always follow his lead, and I knew perfectly well that he’d put an end to this once he found out. Maybe he spoke to you of high-minded reasons like duty, but that’s not why he’s really angry. It’s because you haven’t been available lately to drop everything the second he wants your attention.”

“You shouldn’t speak of him that way. He’s your lord—”

“And my cousin, and I love him. But I also know his faults, and so do you.” Elemmakil leaned in, earnestly. “It’s not bitterness speaking. Every time he wants to go drinking and can’t find you, the whole house knows about it. Every time you leave directly after a council session instead of hanging around to talk with him. Honestly, I thought you knew. I half-thought that was the reason you…” Something about Glorfindel’s expression made him decide not to finish the sentence.

Glorfindel stood up suddenly, burning with indignation. That was just like Thel, couching his own hurt feelings in criticisms about _responsibility_. The more he thought about it, the more his chagrin was replaced with anger. Of course Thel would expect him to be at his beck and call regardless of what else might happen in Glorfindel’s life—after all, wasn’t he the center of the bloody universe? _Of course_ he was angry. _He_ didn’t want Glorfindel, but no one else could have him either.

Glorfindel’s anger reached the boiling point. He was livid, so incensed it was difficult to find words—especially since he was trying very hard not to take things out on Elemmakil. “I have to—I have to go. We can talk later. He—I—”

Elemmakil held up his palms placatingly, a strange look on his face as he moved aside to let him pass. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you truly angry before.” He put a hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder, though cautiously, and smiled faintly. “I would not be my cousin just now for a dwarf-mine of mithril.”

Glorfindel gave him a brief, tight smile, then stormed off to the House of the Fountain.

Ecthelion was clearly not expecting him. He wheeled around wide-eyed when Glorfindel slammed the door open and strode into his office, though he was quick enough on the uptake; his posture shifted instantly to a fighting stance. Glorfindel shut the door behind him quietly, but no more calmly, before crossing the room to put himself very deliberately into Ecthelion’s space. It was easy to forget his height most of the time, easygoing as he tended to be, but in his anger he towered over the Lord of the Fountain—a fact that neither of them failed to note.

A charged silence hung between them, until at last Ecthelion demanded, “Well?”

Glorfindel’s expression was hard, and he took his time with the answer. “How little you must think of me,” he said after a pause, his voice heavy. “After all this time—no matter what I’ve done—I am still that lovesick child to you. You may not have changed, Ecthelion, but I have. _I do not belong to you._ ”

He hadn’t expected that either, it seemed. He didn’t bother pretending not to understand, but he was not contrite. “Have you? I thought we were friends. Now I wonder if we ever were, or if you were only waiting for me to change my mind. It’s telling, isn’t it, how you _vanished_ once you found someone else to love?”

Glorfindel’s fists clenched and unclenched. “You’re so clever with words, I always leave believing I’m the only one who has ever done any wrong between us. Not this time, Ecthelion. Do you know what _friends_ do? They say ‘I haven’t seen you in awhile, let’s get a drink and catch up.’ They say ‘I miss you, can you make some time for me?’ They don’t play these games.” He bent just slightly, putting himself further into Ecthelion’s space. “You had only to ask for my time and I would have given it. But you don’t think you should have to ask, do you? You think it’s yours by right.”

Ecthelion’s posture shifted significantly at that. He dropped out of his fighting stance and into—what, exactly? Something wholly unfamiliar to Glorfindel, anyway. He rocked back a little on his heels without stepping away; his arms tucked in against his sides though his hands stayed in fists; he opened his mouth and then closed it again without managing to say anything. _That_ was an almost unfathomable thing, Ecthelion without words. His lips tightened, briefly; finally he said, “It isn’t that,” in a tone Glorfindel was certain he’d _never_ heard from Ecthelion before.

“I beg your pardon?”

Again, he seemed to struggle with the words, his jaw working. “It’s—I find it—difficult to ask.”

Glorfindel steeled himself against the temptation to feel guilty at Ecthelion’s sudden change in demeanor. Who was to say it was even sincere? “Oh, swallow your pride, for once. I do it often enough.”

Ecthelion did not snap back at him, which either took an immense effort of will—or, as Glorfindel tried not to acknowledge, meant he was genuinely discomfited. Instead, his voice was low and strained. “Do you—” he stopped, drew breath, forged on— “Do you have any idea how hard that is for me to do? I am not like you. I am not…”

“Humble?” Glorfindel put in snidely.

Ecthelion inclined his head just slightly, acknowledging the jab, but went on. “Flexible. Not like you are. I am—my armor is steel and diamond, and so am I. Rigid and sharp.”

He tried not to give in, though he was not sure he had ever seen Ecthelion like this, even pretending. But Glorfindel could be sharp, too. And wasn’t it well-deserved, after all this time? “And mine is leafed with gold, the most yielding metal—like me? That’s the Glorfindel you want, isn’t it, the yielding, bending Glorfindel?”

“What I _want_ is the Glorfindel who loves me!” Ecthelion finally reached his breaking point, but not in the way he’d expected—the words were less a shout than a plea. In the silence after his outburst Ecthelion lifted a hand, caught a lock of Glorfindel’s hair that had fallen forward over his shoulder, brushed it back into place; it was not a transgressive touch, but it was an intimate one. His fingertips lingered there at the back of Glorfindel’s shoulder.

Glorfindel was frozen, barely able to process what he’d just heard—or rather, what lay beneath the words, what _hadn’t_ been said. After all this time, it was impossible to believe; there had to be some other motivation. He dropped his shoulder slightly, letting Ecthelion’s hand fall away. When he finally found his voice, all he could say was, “Why now? Why would you say that _now_? Is this because of Elemmakil?”

Ecthelion glanced down at his shrugged-off hand, flexing the fingers slowly as if to be sure they still worked. “ _No_ , ‘Lor. I don’t _care_ about that. Keep him, if you like, although I can’t imagine what you see in—” he broke off, chagrined, and tried again. “Sorry. I mean, I don’t mind what you do with my cousin. I only…”

Glorfindel did not help him, letting the silence stretch until he could force out more of the sentence.

“I didn’t _know_ ,” he managed at last. “I didn’t know until you weren’t always hot on my heels that I needed you to be. I do want your time— _more_ than your time, I want—”

Glorfindel folded his arms across his chest, though his hands shook where they were tucked into his elbows. “My company?”

“Yes—”

“My attention?”

“ _You_ .” Ecthelion caught him by the wrists, unfolding his crossed arms and putting himself in the space where they’d been. Glorfindel’s resolve weakened; he laid one hand lightly on Ecthelion’s waist, though it was the tentative touch of someone expecting to be burned.

It was permission enough for Ecthelion. He stretched up and pressed their lips together, his hand at the back of Glorfindel’s neck; Glorfindel closed his eyes but stayed frozen in place, neither moving away nor reciprocating. He might as well have been made of stone, for all the tension in his frame.

After a long, tense moment Ecthelion pulled back, disappointment written in every line of his body. Or dismay, perhaps. _No_ , thought Glorfindel, coming to it at last— _despair_. “It really is too late then. I thought maybe—” Ecthelion made a sound of frustration, but it was clearly with himself. He turned and took a few steps away, then came closer again, drawing a deep breath as he tried to master himself.

Finally, with great effort, he said, “I’m sorry, Glorfindel. I should have realized you were no longer—that you didn’t—” He trailed off helplessly, then drew another breath and said instead, “That you had changed.”

Glorfindel’s chest ached, sudden and sharp. Ecthelion, who never apologized for anything, had managed an apology—and _still_ could not say the rest. Ecthelion, who was never without a ready retort, could barely speak. _Thel_ , cool collected Thel, was genuinely distressed—and that was what convinced him.

This was real. It was _true_. This was not one of Thel’s manipulations. Whatever was left of his fear, of his reluctance, gave way.

“I’ve changed,” said Glorfindel in a rush, “but not beyond all recognition.” He intended to say something romantic after that, like _there is no version of me that could help but love you_ , but he was not a poet and this was no epic tale. Instead he found himself grabbing Thel by the shoulders, half-dragging him back to where they had been a few moments ago, chest to chest. Ecthelion was no more gentle in his response, crushing their mouths together, fists tight in golden hair—Glorfindel would have a swollen lip tomorrow from where it caught between their teeth, but none of it mattered.

All was not forgiven—they were not gentle with one another. Ecthelion bit at his throat; Glorfindel pushed him away, but only for long enough to tear his own tunic off, pressing back in to grab the hem of Thel's and drag it over his head as well. Ecthelion pressed him backwards, then toppled him onto the window-seat with a foot hooked behind his ankle and a well-placed shove; the curtains, thankfully, had been drawn against the heat, so there was no one to witness the show. Glorfindel caught a fistful of black braids and pulled Thel down on top of him, though he was too tall to stretch out on the seat and the space was not really big enough for the both of them. They managed to make it work, if barely.

"Here's a question," Ecthelion said conversationally, sounding for all the world as if he were at a dinner party rather than pulling impatiently at the laces of Glorfindel's trousers. Glorfindel braced himself—Thel's tone was the falsely bright one he tended to use for vicious sarcasm, so there was little doubt that something unpleasant was about to follow. "How long would it have taken you to come see me, if I hadn't sought you out first?"

"Here's another," Glorfindel snapped, shifting up on his elbows to press hot kisses to Thel's throat and down his breastbone. Thel leaned back to let him, though the hand not occupied with his laces tugged sharply at his hair. "How long would it have taken you to admit your motives, if your cousin hadn't enlightened me?"

"I take it back," Thel growled. "That yielding Glorfindel you spoke of...is it too late to have him instead?"

"One hundred years too late." Glorfindel's tone was short and sharp. "Don't test me, Ecthelion."

And just this once—though they moved together fierce and controlled, in defiance of the summer heat—Ecthelion did not.

**Author's Note:**

>  _melindil_ : Dear friend (also, apparently, lover). Seemed appropriately ambiguous for Glorfindel to address Elemmakil in the middle of breaking up with him.


End file.
